Book One: A Past
by medusa-oblangata
Summary: Review, please. female!Harry in America. All of the Drama, with HUMAN Characters! Massive plagiarism? Yes. Hilarious? Hopefully. Hopefully Will Contain: sex, abuseall kinds, violence, profanity, drug use, selfharm, suicide, thematic elements.
1. The Girl Who Lived

**The Girl Who Lived**

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number seventeen forty-two, Rotisserie Court, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the absolute last couple you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, unless of course you knew about their secret connection to the magical world. They would probably be upset that I'm telling you all about it, because instead of thinking magic is wicked awesome, the Dursleys avoided non-mediocrity like the plague. Not that they held any particular beliefs, mind you, because this is a completely secular story.

Anyway, the Dursleys were content with their modest suburban home. They took pride in their simple accomplishments and had a dull but loving marriage--but don't let this innocuous front fool you, for the Dursleys were evil people. Like all evil people, they were strikingly unattractive; the wife a bony sort of ugly and her husband a fat sort of ugly. Their house, car, and possessions were similarly ugly and dull.

These horrible folks happened to be related to the coolest people ever: the Potters. That's the dark secret I mentioned earlier. You see, the Dursleys hated magic and thought they would have to move to Australia if anyone found out their connection to, you guessed it, a witch and wizard. Why anyone would really give a shit or even believe it if they were told that your sister and brother-in-law were a witch and wizard is unclear--but then, logic is never a strong suit of evil suburbanites. The Dursleys also had a young child, so it may have been paranoid overprotectiveness.

Mrs. Dursley, given name Petunia, was trying to choo-choo soggy Frosted Flakes into Dudley, her son, while hysterically singing the Tony the Tiger song (Grrrrrrrreat!) that fateful day. Morning. Morning of the fateful day. Her husband Vernon was shuffling around the kitchen getting his briefcase, laptop, phone, and a go-cup of coffee (even though there would be coffee at his office and it only took ten minutes to drive there). Vernon worked at a Boring bank where he decided whether or not to deny good honest people loans they desperately needed. The couple didn't bother kissing good-bye, since they were now parents and would never touch each other again.

Petunia spent the rest of the day ignoring Dudley, crying, and lying on the bed or staring in the mirror dazedly. She was suffering from post-partum depression compounded by doubts about her marriage and the fear that, although she was Ivy-League educated, she would never pick her career up again. So, we can't really blame her if she failed to anticipate the horrible shock she would soon receive.

Vernon, on the other hand, was far too conventional to notice any of the blatant signs of unusualness plaguing the townspeople. Until he was pulling into his driveway, that is. Just then, the announcer on his favorite Golden Oldies station came on: "Apparently the so-called magical community is rejoicing today some unknown event involving the estranged relatives of Vernon Dursley, a local banker. In other news, insurgents in Baghdad . . ." Poor Vernon dearly died of coronary thrombosis, but didn't. He scurried from the car in search of dear Petunia. "If only I had married that nice girl with no secret magical relatives," he mused aloud.

Vernon lost his nerve, then quickly got sidetracked. It was already 9 pm because he was an underpaid workaholic, as well as trying to avoid any infant-related responsibilities. Petunia was upstairs locked in the bathroom, and wouldn't be disturbed. Vernon had sincerely meant to discuss the issue with her, but ended up turning on the golf channel and falling asleep.

There was indeed a good deal of Potter-related hullabaloo that day. They were, unfortunately, dead--martyrs in the magical war against terrorism. Still, the magical world rejoiced because the most evil wizard of all time had perished in crashing his explosives-laden helicopter into their bungalow. But wait, it gets better. The Potters, may they rest in peace, had a baby about the same age as young Dudley. Her name was Harriet Potter. She was named after Harriet Tubman, heroine of the Underground Railroad, but was only one-eighth African American, on her father's side. Inexplicably, this tiny baby had not been killed by the blast. Rumors were spreading like wildfire that the child was somehow impervious to Jihad. Not that I mean to bring religion into this.

I think we can all see the conflict here. Young Harriet was now an orphan, and her next of kin the humdrum and possibly racially prejudiced Dursleys.

Just after Vernon had nodded off in front of the TV, a curious looking man appeared in Rotisserie Court. Of course, you couldn't have known he looked curious, because he made himself invisible to non-magical people (aka muddles) like you. If you could have seen him, he would have had a long flowing white beard and a bald head. His face was implausibly smooth and youthful, but with a very prominent hooked nose. He was wearing designer sunglasses and a yellow track suit. His name is Albus Dumbledore, and he is really important. Dumbledore's just about the best (and nearly the oldest) wizard alive and he also runs the school where our Harriet will be going in ten years.

A cat with surprisingly humanoid features which had been sitting on the street corner unnoticed by the Dursleys ran up to greet the unusual old man. The cat then morphed into an angry wrinkled lesbian clad in hiking boots, zip-off shorts, and a fleece pullover. She seemed very anxious. "Oh Albus," she cried, "Can it be true?"

"Yes, Minerva McGonagall, I'm afraid it is," he replied in a tense but sorrowful voice. "The Potters are indeed dead, but little Harriet isn't and so we are bringing her here, obviously. That's why we're here."

The cat lady fell to her knees sobbing, "Lily and James! Oh no! Waaaaah . . ."

"We've all got to go sometime, Minerva, so buck up!" Dumbledore commanded, proffering an odd yellow candy, "Have some Vitamin E." Just then, a gigantic skateboard fell from the sky. On it was perched a very hairy man with a gruff accent of unknown origins. He was nine or so feet tall, depending on who you ask. He wasn't wearing a helmet or elbow pads, but in one arm cradled a baby-like bundle. Upon landing, the man, whose name is Hagrid, lost his balance completely and toppled over, fracturing his wrist. Fortunately the baby didn't fall far, but did get a rather nasty lightning-bolt shaped gash on the left side of her forehead when she hit the asphalt. It was Harriet Potter. Dumbledore coughed disapprovingly. "Hagrid, how can that skateboard possibly hold your gargantuan mass when it belongs to Young Sirius Black, a normal sized guy and the now-deceased Potters' dearest friend?"

"Magic," Hagrid mumbled with a sidelong glance.

"Oooh, da po' widdle babie," McGonagall cooed, "But let's not fix her head, although we could easily do so, because the trauma caused by large facial scars recalling the death of one's parents can be very useful." Dumbledore just nodded and ate another lemon drop. "Anyhoo, let's get on with it."

The trio settled the unconscious child on the doorstep of number seventeen forty-two. Dumbledore tucked a note with the bleeding infant for the Dursleys to discover the next morning. Then, as they were turning to leave, Hagrid began to sniffle. "What if Harriet star's cryin' an' thar ain' no one 'ere for 'er, an' wha' abou' the milkman an' the paper boy an' possibly the garbage men? Isn' it a tad odd to be havin' a wee one on the porch? An' plus when ya open the door, ya's gonna knock 'er down the steps if'n ya don' know she's thar!"

"That's a good point," McGonagall chimed in, "Also, I've been watching this family all day and they're totally evil. Their ten-month-old baby cries all the time. They don't even know any magic! I'm absolutely aghast! Life here will unquestionably suck for little Harriet!"

"It's, uh, this ancient magic thing, really . . ." Dumbledore assured them. "Besides, is one of you going to take care of the brat?" Everyone shrugged and disappeared in various magical ways.


	2. A Day at the Zoo

**A Day at the Zoo**

Nearly ten years had passed since the day the Dursleys woke up to find, of all things, their battered niece on the stoop, and Rotisserie Court was not as it had been. The sun was dark in their eyes when they looked upon the unwelcome guest. Harriet Potter was a constant reminder of all the Dursleys hated and feared. However, they had a decent sense of social and familial responsibility, and so could not kick her out. Petunia and Vernon, now "Aunt" and "Uncle" lavished all of their love and attention on Dudley while mostly ignoring Harriet. He had grown into an active boy who compensated for his marked lack of intellect with athletic skill and clownish antics. Harriet, on the other hand, became quiet and antisocial. Her Aunt and Uncle had fostered in her cynicism beyond her years. Yet she was a lovely girl, slender, with short unkempt black hair and soft Caramel Macchiato skin. Most of her time was spent reading and people watching.

On the day in question, Harriet awoke around 10 o'clock in her tiny walk-in closet converted bedroom. Throwing on some denim cut-offs and a T-shirt she had found at the YMCA, she rushed downstairs. The girl had slept too late once again: breakfast was over. The Dursleys maintained that it was unhealthy to eat between meals, so Harriet would now have to wait for lunch. Upon seeing the parti-colored gifts piled on the kitchen table, she was reminded that it was Dudley's birthday. A blue and yellow cake was perched on the counter, candles waiting to be lit. The happy family was about to begin unwrapping presents.

As an only child (more or less), Dudley often received lavish gifts despite their mid-range income. Somewhere in the pile lurked a new Nintendo DS and a digital camcorder. Aunt Petunia usually gave Harriet 5 dollars on her birthday, if she remembered. The Dursleys would enjoy this little holiday that much more if she made herself scarce, so she grabbed her backpack and flip-flops. "I'm going!" she yelled as the door slammed behind her. Instead of breaking her spirit, her upbringing neglected by her Aunt and Uncle had made her strong-willed and fiercely independent. Harriet took no more from her guardians than necessary.

Her favorite place to go was the old downtown area. A new, young crowd had claimed the run-down buildings and shops. Alternative was putting it lightly, and the area was becoming hip. Yet many of the dealers and bums kept their old haunts. It was completely unsuitable for a child, but that's what she loved about it. Harriet called it affectionately "the Zoo." She loved to weave through the throngs and inspect the exotic wares offered. Many locals recognized her and she was greeted by name in some shops, smiling shyly in return. Little Mr. Moua, the Laotian grocer, always tossed her an orange and shouted "Carpe Diem!"

The Zoo was a good long walk away, and Harriet hadn't meant to wander so far that day. The sight of Dudley with his doting parents, however brittle a façade it was, had upset her a good deal. She had no memory at all of her parents and couldn't help but ask why? Why had the cosmos aligned to make her so very alone? Harriet had never allowed herself to get close enough to have a real friend--she couldn't help it. On a day like this, couples, families and friends seemed to mock her loneliness and all the friendly greetings in the world could not fill the gaping hole in her heart. But her delicate features remained impassive.

Glancing at her four-dollar watch, Harriet realized she had now missed lunch in addition to breakfast. "Damn them!" she thought vehemently, "I'll miss dinner as well." She walked several blocks to the nearest Starbucks. It was crowded with lunch-hour suits. An order soon came up that elicited no response from the waiting crowd. Probably talking on their cell phone. Harriet counted to five Mississippis. "I'll get it, Ma!" she said loudly to no one in particular, sized the mocha, and waltzed out the door and around the corner. It was skim milk, and a little strong for her taste, but quieted her growling stomach right away.

After sipping the syrupy dregs of the latte, Harriet decided to pick up the next Anne of Green Gables book--she had just finished the third in the series. She only wished her life would work out as well as Anne's. The lonely girl especially loved series, as the only relationships she had were in books, she liked them to be as long-term as possible. Harriet's favorite books were the Oz series, followed closely by the Chronicles of Narnia, even if it was a biblical allegory. There was a Barnes & Noble nearby, with an inviting children's section so kids would stay longer and force their parents to buy more. It was the work of minutes to flip through a book and remove the magnetic strips, then stuff it surreptitiously under the miniature plastic table and into her waiting backpack. In later days she would call this "fucking the system," but even in her tender years Harriet could sense the stench of corporate evil in the giant chain store. She had simply learned to utilize what resources were available. She had a strong sense of honor, of course, and would never steal from a _real_ book store or from and individual person.

There was a cramped, dirty little park near the Zoo. Here she settled under a decrepit maple to begin devouring the new book. The Dursleys could worry as much as they liked, or not at all! Harriet was determined to stay out all day, though under this bravado she was a little hungry.

Some time later, a kindly voice disturbed her. "What are you reading there, my dear?" it asked. Unnoticed by her, an older man with a friendly face had stopped on the path near her. He was wearing a dark jacket and carrying a knobbly walking stick.

"A book."

"My, is that Anne of Green Gables?" the man continued, "My dear niece so loves those books." Harriet was silent. "Do you like very much to read, m'dear?"

"Yeah," she grumbled, beginning to feel ashamed of being so rude.

"But where on earth are your parents? This is a rough part of town, you know . . ." He had squatted down to her eye level.

"They're dead," she replied softly.

"Oh my, you poor thing. You're all alone here?"

Harriet nodded. She had begun to sniffle. She was so very lonely that day, and rather depressed, and the nice man was looking at her so kindly. It was so rare that she really spoke with anyone at all.

"It's almost dinner-time, honey," said the man as he glanced at his watch. "Do you need a ride somewhere--home?"

Harriet shook her head furiously, then added, "nothankyouverrymush," through tears. The Dursley's, hardly home, was the last place she wanted to go.

"Tell you what, how about I buy you something to eat? I don't want you out here all by yourself. Do you like pancakes? I think there's a great little restaurant right near here. Best pancakes in the world!" It was a good guess, for pancakes were Harriet's very favorite food aside from movie popcorn. She wiped her face off on her sleeve and, standing up, took his proffered hand. He led her about a block, then stopped beside a white Lincoln. The nice man explained it was further than he thought, so they really should drive. This was a really great place, though.

Harriet balked for a moment. It felt a little weird . . . But he was being so kind to her and going out of his way. She didn't want to start acting silly. But when she got in the car she became more nervous. He hummed a jolly Christmas tune, and Harriet remained silent until she looked outside and realized they had passed quite a few streets.

"Umm . . . Mister," she started, "Where exactly is it we're going to?"

"Oh, it's right around here, m'dear," he assured her gently.

A few moments later, Harriet began to feel panic welling up in her. What was this guy's name, had he even said? Oh God, was she going to end up just like the foolish children she had seen in the filmstrip at school? "Sir, could you please stop now?" she said, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

"Oh? But we're nearly there, hon, why would you want to stop just now?"

Another force was rising up in her, uncontrollably. "Stop! Just Stop!" she screamed, by this point totally freaking out. "Let me out!" she cried. The car screeched to a halt, catching them both off guard. The vehicle's traction, however, was not so good, and it spun around and off the road. The back end slammed into a parked car. The passenger door popped open, and Harriet, screaming like a banshee, tumbled out, terrified. As she sprinted down the street the unfortunate Lincoln burst into greenish flame, much to the surprise of onlookers from a small, world-renowned pancake restaurant across the street.

On the bus ride home, Harriet tried not to mull over what might have happened to her--or for that matter, what had happened. Did that car really blow up? Things like that only happened in movies. She realized she had lost her precious backpack somewhere along the way. Maybe the Dursleys wouldn't even notice, but then again, it was getting awfully late and they were bound to be upset. Perhaps they had simply locked her out. Harriet did some calming breathing exercises and wondered how her real parents would have reacted.


	3. Letters A GoGo

**Letters À Go-Go**

Harriet had scoured the internet, but failed to come up with a plausible explanation for the explosion of her would-be abductor's car. Ruling out spontaneous combustion--which she suspected would not involve green flames--Harriet began to entertain the possibility that _she_ was the source of the fire. Pyrokinesis was a thrilling concept (she had once made a hot dog explode in the microwave), but after failing to light the merest candle without the aid of a Bic lighter she began to give it up. If the Dursleys had noticed how late she was out that night, or how thoroughly traumatized she was, they gave no indication and life went on as before.

Lounging in the back yard, limbs bronzed in the summer sun, Harriet was perusing an old copy of Lucky magazine and laughing silently at American women, idiotic puppets of media-driven consumer culture, when she heard the front door slam. It was Dudley, returning from practice. His junior soccer team was the favorite in three counties, and they practiced relentlessly to hold this position. Tennis shoes squeaked obnoxiously on the linoleum floor for a moment before he called out, "Letter fer you!"

_A letter? Harriet thought curiously, then realized it was probably just last term's report cards. Dudley tended to hide his; though he never actually failed it was usually close. His parents didn't seem to notice. Harriet did alright in class despite her apathy. How odd, she thought, we've been out of school for only a few weeks and I feel as though it never even happened. Time stretches out interminably to a child. She looked forward to starting at the Junior High that fall. Perhaps, finally, she'd make some friends; it seemed to happen through a method she could not fathom--pure chance. Though she ridiculed the "normal" kids, huddling in their anonymous groups, Harriet was painfully lonely sometimes. _

When she finally shuffled into the kitchen, Dudley was finger-combing his sweaty golden locks and peering at a thick envelope, mumbling "weird . . ." while half-heartedly searching the fridge for Gatorade.

"When did you learn to read?" she quipped. Besides being rude, it was a poor decision, as her cousin was quite sensitive about his middling mental capacity. In an instant Dudley's usual easygoing posture disappeared and his face reddened. He suddenly annoyed Harriet beyond reason. _What a foolish little boy he is_, she thought, _his precious sports and his stupid family!_

"You're the one getting letters from some mental institute!" he blurted, waving the thick envelope above her head. Harriet grabbed for the letter but he evaded her with a chuckle and dashed up the stairs to his room, clutching it at his side.

"That's mine, you stupid ass!" she growled, taking after him. "Give it to me!"

"Shut up, you . . . Nigger!" he replied, slamming the door behind him.

Incensed, she had just begun to pound on his door and yell "discrimination is a learned behavior" when, like a silent fury, Aunt Petunia appeared. Wrapped in a light cotton robe, eyes bulging. "Children . . . neighbors! . . . disrupt . . . unacceptable . . . how dare!" Petunia garbled in a quiet, scratchy voice. Gripping her niece by the shoulder she gathered her wits and began again with "Young Lady," at the exact moment Harriet started to screech "But Dudley!" She saw her mistake in the second before Petunia's hand connected with her face. Her Aunt, used to the days when public education occupied most of the children's time, was not by any means to be disturbed in mid day--especially when she hadn't been taking her medication, as appeared to be the case.

In between her stints as a soccer mom and sporadic fits of Martha Stewart inspired baking or crafting, Mrs. Dursley spent much of her time whining at Mr. Dursley and living vicariously through reality TV. For the past few years she had been seeing an analyst who prescribed her a little something to take the edge off. She was usually docile enough, but Harriet seemed to get her temper up. Petunia resented the burden of caring for her from infancy and was becoming increasingly jealous of the lovely and intelligent girl, who still had so much in life to look forward to. She slapped her niece a few more times for good measure.

There was an awkward moment of silence. Petunia floundered briefly before summoning her son from his room. "What is the meaning of this, Young Man?" she demanded in her best authoritarian voice. He handed over the letter--Harriet's--with an embarrassed "er . . ."

It was addressed to:Harriett Potter c/o Muddles

1742 Rotisserie Ct.

Muddleville USA

"They spelt my name wrong!" the girl hissed.

Petunia flipped over the envelope and let out a horrified gasp when she saw the big important-looking gold embossed seal (which is really the only sort of gold embossed seal).

"Is it from Muddle County Child Services?"

Her aunt ignored this and, trying hard to conceal her discomfiture, stuffed the controversial object into a robe pocket. She had recognized at once the tiny script the seal bore, which read _"Hensteeth Institute." _Amid much protest she declared that they must all forget about the whole thing, not bother her anymore, and stop fighting. The children reluctantly complied after a few threatening gestures and everyone went their separate ways.

That night a more important discussion occurred, which the children were not privy to. The Dursleys had long expected, and dreaded, the day when their niece's magical fellows would come to claim their own. Mr. Dursley's view of the matter consisted entirely of, "Just ignore them and they'll go away. It's worked this long." He unfortunately did not have a firm grasp of the situation, leaving his wife to deal with it alone, as usual. For she knew all about this so-called Institute of Magical Education--evil. Petunia's dear sister Lily had done this whole magic boarding school thing and look how that turned out. You may imagine that the Dursleys would have considered themselves well out of it had elves spirited away their niece. The truth is, Harriet provided for a sizeable tax break and they looked forward to coercing much of her inheritance from her when she turned 18. Ultimately, though, it comes back to the Dursley's simple and pure hatred of magic and anything so associated.

When the mail was delivered around two o'clock the next day, Petunia was waiting. Harriet didn't have the faintest idea that she had magic powers anyway, so no one would know the difference if Petunia simply never mentioned it. Just as she had suspected, another thick envelope arrived for her niece. Dashing to her husband's home office, she read the document through, sighed disapprovingly and ran it through the paper shredder.

By the third day, Harriet had more or less forgotten the incident a few days before. She went back to sitting around, reading, and making fun of things, happy as a clam. Petunia, on the other hand, was worried the letters would just keep coming. Eventually her niece would get a hold of one, and what a pain in the ass that would be to explain. Therefore, after successfully intercepting the mail for the sixth time, she scrawled across the top "_Addressee Has Moved_" and dropped it at the post office. Feeling very relieved, because she was quite unaware that this would probably not fool the most powerful wizard in America, Petunia put the whole business far from her mind and went in to watch some TV.

Many miles and schools of thought away, a bearded old man was not happy about that. _We can send letters till we're blue in the face_, he realized, _but those Muggles aren't going to just ship little Harriet off to magic school. _So with supernatural speed, because he's magic, he dispatched someone to take care of the problem.

The dispatchee, a rather large and hairy one in fact, arrived at the Dursley residence just as the family was sitting down to a dinner of pepperoni pizza from Papa Murphy's.

And there was a very loud knock at the door.

"_KNOCK!"_


End file.
